The Doctor wakes a few more times over the course of the evening. It's always for only a minute or so, but he is more lucid each time, and Ianto can see Jack growing more and more hopeful. Finally, when the others have all left and Ianto is replacing the fifth ice-cold, untouched cup of tea, the Doctor opens eyes which are bright and clear, gives a startled yelp, and falls off the couch.
Jack, who has been dozing himself, jerks awake.
"You okay, Doc?" he asks, bending to help him to his feet. The Doctor bats his hands away impatiently, straightening his rumpled suit and assuming an expression of affronted dignity. He looks exactly like a cat who has botched a landing, trying to pretend that it was his idea all along.
"I'm fine," he huffs, smoothing his tie. "What am I doing on your couch?" he asks, frowning at the offending piece of furniture. He has asked some version of this question every time he woke up, but where before it was laced with varying amounts of fear and uncertainty, now there's only bewilderment, and a touch of irritation. "I didn't let you buy me a drink, did I? Because in that case you really ought to keep a closer eye on your pubs; alcohol shouldn't affect me like that . . . ."
"You don't remember what happened?" Jack questions, sounding cautious but not surprised.
"No, I –" He stops and seems to take stock of his situation, glancing down at the almost-healed cuts on his wrists, feeling gingerly at his side. Ianto holds his breath, not sure what he's hoping for. "Oh," the Doctor says softly, shallow indignation evaporating in an instant and leaving him looking very old (weary exhausted worn). His gaze flickers to Ianto, but it holds none of the resentment triumph blame that Ianto expected (would have felt in his place). Instead, there's something which almost looks like . . . .
. . . no. It can't be – he can't possibly –
But the Doctor is already breaking eye contact, turning back to Jack before Ianto can determine whether what he saw in his eyes was really (it can't have been) shame.
"I'm so sorry, Jack," he says, and there's no mistaking it now – his guilt shame self-loathing is written all over his (still pale, still sickly) face.
"What for?" asks Jack, sounding as startled as Ianto feels.
"I've been – I said things . . ." The Doctor trails off, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding their eyes.
"You've been sick," says Jack firmly, clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No one blames you for that."
He does, Ianto realizes with a jolt. The Doctor has been through hell in the past few hours, nearly driven mad from the pain of reliving old traumas, and he's blaming himself for causing other people trouble. The concept is completely absurd. It would almost be funny if it weren't so heartbreakingly sad.
"You saved my life, sir," says Ianto, unable (unwilling) to keep his silence any longer, "and you were" (broken exposed tortured) ". . . hurt. I should be the one apologizing."
"Oh, you have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Jones!" says the Doctor brightly, all guilt suddenly chased from his expression by a toothy, blinding grin. "The world isn't quite ready to get along without you yet, I should think." He bounces cheerfully on the balls of his feet, but the effect is rather ruined when he pales and sways.
"Doctor!" says Jack with alarm, reaching out to steady him.
"I'm fine," the Doctor says quickly, stepping back and out of reach. "Just a bit light-headed, that's all."
Jack pulls back, eyeing him skeptically.
"Ianto," he says abruptly. "Find us some dinner, can you? The Doctor and I need to talk."
The pain is contained again, allowing him to function, to smile, to do more than whimper like a child and worry Jack. He can still (always) feel it, though, lapping at the edges of his mind, catching at his voice as he apologizes, making his grin feel brittle as he brushes away Mr. Jones' entirely unnecessary guilt. No need for anyone else to be hurt on his account.
Speaking of which, that bounce probably wasn't the best idea, because now Jack is looking at him, clearly not buying his (admittedly weak) excuse. Jack is nearly two hundred years old (the Doctor doesn't know his exact age, and that feels like a failure, somehow), and right now every one of his years is showing in his gaze as he examines (judges evaluates weighs) the Doctor. He is still so young, but he is older than any human was ever meant to be (he brings new meaning to the phrase 'wise beyond his years').
Jack comes to some sort of decision, and sends Mr. Jones away. When he turns back to the Doctor, his expression is so full of care determination love that the Doctor wants to scream (cry run hide).
He's not worth this.
